


Fluff Therapy

by bluebeholder



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: ALL THE FLUFF, ALL THE PAIRINGS - Freeform, Fluff, Multi, Seriously ALL of them - Freeform, Will Tag By Chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-31 23:15:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 8,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12143223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: Standalone fics intended to make your day better. <3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Didn't drop this in Schrodinger's Stories because it's kind of its own thing. I ran a "fluff therapy" prompt thing and wrote everyone who sent in a prompt of their choice, with the pairing they chose. If I do another fluff therapy thing in the future (highly likely to be honest), I'll add them in future chapters. 
> 
> For this fic: Queenie/Newt, for katiehavok.

The lights of New York are blotted out as Newt pulls the curtains of the bedroom closed. From her place lounging atop the covers on the bed, Queenie enjoys the sight of him, shirtless, flitting about taking care of last-minute items on his agenda. He pauses to check on a pot of little Kyactus sprouts that’s moved into the corner, and jots down a note to himself so he’ll remember it in the morning, and only then does he remember that he does own a pajama shirt. His thoughts, even at ten o’clock at night, are a whirling riot of color and sound and motion, and it’s like having the best of moving pictures right before her eyes.

Finally, though, Newt comes to bed. “Come on, Queenie, you should have tucked yourself in already,” he says, gesturing at the covers. 

Queenie smiles. “I was waitin’ on you,” she says. 

Newt sighs, though she can feel the thump of surprised delight inside his head that she’s flirting with him. “Oh, all right.” He pulls back the covers so she can slide between the sheets, and then slides in next to her, pulling the covers up. 

She rolls onto her side and watches him as he flicks his wand to shut off the lights, and in the dim light that still filters in through the curtains she can just see his profile. “Don’t I get a goodnight kiss?” she teases. 

“You’re perfectly impossible,” Newt murmurs, leaning in to kiss her in the dark. _You’re perfect._

“I heard that,” Queenie says. 

She can also hear the smile _. I meant you to._

Queenie covers her face with her hands, though he can’t see her. “Oh, you…”

Newt tugs her in, wrapping her in a warm embrace. It’s not just a physical embrace, but a mental one as well, as his thoughts wrap around her, a good dream before she’s even closed her eyes. “Good night, Queenie,” he says. 

“Good night, Newt,” Queenie whispers. 

When she sleeps, she joins Newt in his dreams.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> duckiesinaline requested: Percival vs the niffler with a side of smitten Newt!
> 
> Hypothetically, this takes place after my LAST Gramander fic, after they get on the boat to Hawaii.

“ _Newton Artemis Fido Scamander_ , get out here!” 

“Oh, bugger,” Newt mutters to the Fwooper, on which he’s just reinforced the Silencing Charm, “that sounds like Percival and he isn’t due for three hours. I think the Niffler’s got out again…” All he gets in reply is a silent screech. 

He leaves the Fwooper to harass the giant beetles and hurries up to the shed, where Percival, in suit and tie, looking slightly mad, waits. He’s got the Niffler by the scruff of the neck and they’re glaring at each other. 

“Did you set this beast loose on me?” Percival demands.

Newt rolls his eyes. “I know better than to do that, you know. Here–Niff, come here, you daft creature–” With great disdain, Percival passes the tiny criminal over to Newt’s custody.

“I had to Obliviate half the ship,” Percival says, looking aggrieved, as Newt checks the Niffler for contraband. “I also had to chase this little jackass across half the ship after he stole everything valuable the crew owned, and then return _all of it_.”

Indeed, the Niffler hasn’t got a scrap of metal on its person. It’s doing its best to look innocent, but Newt knows better. “Well, no harm done,” Newt says. 

Percival throws up his hands. “Newt! You’re enabling its life of crime!”

“You know, Percival, the problem is that he likes you,” Newt points out. 

“He _what_.”

Newt shrugs. “He only tries to break out of the case when you aren’t in it, have you noticed? And then he follows you around stealing things to get your attention. I think he’s decided that you’re a shiny thing…”

“A friendly question–have you gone and completely cracked?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Newt says, struggling not to smile. He so loves seeing Percival flustered. It’s…cute.

Percival groans, face in his hands. “Giles Corey save me from you.”

“He’s dead,” Newt says cheerfully, unable to hide his grin. “You’ll have to save yourself.”

“You know very well that I don’t even want to,” Percival says, looking up at Newt with a helpless smile.

“Well, that’s good, because I’d rather you didn’t break up with me over my next suggestion,” Newt says, scratching the Niffler’s head.

Percival looks wary. “And that suggestion is…”

Newt hands the Niffler back to Percival before either party can protest. “You two need to spend some time bonding! I’ll be off taking care of the Graphorns and absolutely shouldn’t be disturbed. Have fun!” And Newt _runs_ before Percival can hex him, laughing at the spluttering from behind him.

By that evening, Percival and the Niffler appear to have become fast friends. And Newt couldn’t be happier.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wilderwisdom requested sickfic: one partner is sick and grumpy and the other one takes care of them.
> 
> We had a lot of sickfic during this prompt-a-thon.

“I have to work!” 

Queenie gently but firmly pushes Jacob back onto the bed. “Honey, you’re a hundred and one. You ain’t doing anything but sleeping.”

Jacob scowls. _Come on…_ “Queenie, this ain’t that bad…” 

“ _No_ ,” Queenie says. “You’ll make it worse, getting up and running around.”

“I can’t just laze around.” _Too much to do…_

She sighs and sits down next to him. He’s radiating heat. At the rate he’s going, he’ll have a worse fever by lunch. “Laziness means you can work but don’t. This is you being sick, which means you can’t work and shouldn’t.”

Jacob folds his arms and tries to look mad, but it’s ruined by a sneeze. “I hate not being able to do anything.” _Can’t abandon the house-elves to work alone…_

“I’m going to go and make you tea,” Queenie says. She squeezes his hand and goes out to the kitchen, where she also sets a pot of chicken soup going. 

The tea has lemon in it, and when Queenie brings it back Jacob is happy to drink it. She wasn’t wrong: by lunch, he’s really hot, fever climbing, not alarmingly so but enough that even Jacob admits he won’t be doing anything today. Queenie asks the house-elves if they want to close up early, and they all accept the early weekend happily. 

Unfortunately, Queenie can’t just give Jacob some Pepperup Potion and be done with it. It’s a risky business, treating a Muggle with magical medicine, so she’ll stick with tea and chicken soup for now. 

He’s irritable through the rest of the day, but is amiable when Queenie offers to sit and read to him. Halfway through the second chapter, Jacob falls asleep. Queenie lets him, happy to see that  By the end of the day, the fever is retreating. 

“Sorry I was such a grouch today,” Jacob says wearily, when Queenie brings in chicken soup for dinner.

“It’s all right,” Queenie says. “You’re so cheerful all the time, you’ve got to mope sometime. And might as well do it while you’re sick!”

Jacob rolls his eyes. “Maybe,” he says. “I still hope I feel better tomorrow.”

Queenie kisses his forehead. “I bet you will.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> siderumincaelo requested sickfic too, featuring Newt and Credence (in a friendship kind of way).

In all the time that Credence has been dragging himself around the world after Newt Scamander, he has never once known the magizoologist to sleep late.

Somehow, the fact that he is today scares Credence half to death.

He searches half the suitcase before finding Newt, lying in a hammock strung between two trees in the temperate forest. “Are you all right?” Credence asks, approaching with care.

“I came down with the flu,” Newt says blearily, “and…I think my balance is rather off, I’m afraid of trying to get out of the hammock.”

“…the flu?” Credence takes an instinctive step back. He remembers the Spanish Influenza, of course.

“Nothing serious,” Newt says. He lifts his head a bit, looking at Credence over the curve of the hammock. “I think there’s Pepperup Potion in the shed…?”

There is no Pepperup Potion in the shed.

Newt rubs his eyes. “Of course there isn’t,” he says. “Honestly…”

“I know how to help people with the flu,” Credence hazards.

“Oh, right. I forget that sometimes…you’re the expert today, I suppose,” Newt says with a small smile. “What shall I do, doctor?”

Credence feels himself blushing a little. He checks the temperature of Newt’s forehead. The magizoologist is burning up. “Chicken soup, honestly,” he says. “And bed rest. No-Majs can’t really get rid of a flu, but…we can make a patient comfortable.”

Newt closes his eyes. “I’ll leave it up to you,” he says sleepily.

Credence finds himself determined to fix Newt, which is how he comes to have two concoctions going on the stove at the same time: a pot of chicken soup and a cauldron where he’s attempting to brew Pepperup Potion out of one of Newt’s heavily-marked potion books. Newt has left a long list of annotations, mostly alterations to the potion that will apply its effects to Bowtruckles or Mooncalves or Grindylows, and Credence ignores them.

He thinks he’s got the potion right, and he knows he’s got the soup right, so he brings them both to Newt. Credence helps Newt get out of the hammock and onto a blanket on the ground so that they don’t have any spill-related disasters, and Newt devours the soup like a man starved.

“You,” he pronounces, spoon clattering into the empty bowl, “are the best cook this side of the Pacific.”

“Let’s hope that holds up for potions,” Credence says, holding out the vial. Newt stares at him, uncomprehending. “I tried.”

“Oh,” Newt says, taking the vial. “One dose of Pepperup Potion, I presume?”

Credence nods. “If you think it’s not safe–”

“I trust you,” Newt says with a quick smile. He pops the cork of the vial and downs the whole thing in one go. Half a second later, steam explodes out of his ears, and continues to wisp out after the initial burst.

“Is that a good sign?” Credence asks anxiously.

Newt nods enthusiastically. “I’ll be feeling all right in an hour or so!” he says.

Credence practically feels himself deflate with relief. “Good.”

“Thank you for the help,” Newt says. “I haven’t…I mean, I’m not terribly used to having help when I’m ill, so…”

“Any time,” Credence says, and means it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: Newt/Graves, Newt does not grasp the concept of interdepartmental memos. 
> 
> Suggestive content ahoy.

Graves’ eyes nearly drop out of his head as he opens the memo from Newt. 

_I keep thinking about last night…_

He flips the paper over and slams it down on his desk. There’s no one around to see this, luckily; and no one will see it if Graves has anything to say about it. He summons a file and marks it “CLASSIFIED”, shoving the memo inside to be read later at his leisure. When he’s not the office. 

This memo, Graves assumes, is a fluke. 

It is not a fluke. 

For the rest of the day, Graves receives increasingly explicit messages from Newt, and gets increasingly bothered by it.

_…on my knees…_

_…saying my name over and over…  
_

_I look forward to tonight…_

Newt, Graves decides after the fourth memo, is an impeccable writer of erotic prose. Rarely has Graves read better writing. What he cannot for the life of him understand is how Newt can be so utterly oblivious as to the actual purpose of interdepartmental memos.

Finally, after a dozen memos have been sent by two o’clock in the afternoon, Graves sends one of his own, demanding that Newt get himself up the Auror Office as soon as possible to discuss urgent business. 

Graves has his door open, so he can see when Newt strolls into the office, waving at the Aurors as he comes into Graves’ office. “You wanted to see me?” he asks innocently. 

“Shut the door,” Graves says with a sigh, and Newt complies. Graves drops the file of memos on the desk, spreading out the papers. “Do you want to explain these?”

Newt looks down at the memos and then at Graves. “What…you mean that’s not how I’m supposed to use these?”

For a second Graves is absolutely frozen. Newt Scamander is a genius, how can the purpose of a banal memo possibly elude him? And then Graves sees the sly smile tugging at Newt’s impossibly pretty mouth and he gets it. 

“You were trying to rile me up!”

Newt breaks into a grin. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Graves gets up and in two strides is around the desk. He takes Newt by the lapels and pulls him into a kiss, which Newt happily reciprocates. And then Graves Summons his coat, wrenches open the door, and sweeps out into the office. “I’ll be taking the rest of the day,” he says, ignoring Newt laughing in his wake. “Send a Patronus for urgent business. Otherwise, I’m not to be disturbed.”

Tina looks like she’s about to explode from holding in a laugh. “…can I assume you got all Newt’s memos, sir?”

“I did,” Graves says, looking over his shoulder at Newt, “and now we’re going to make thorough use of all his suggestions.”

Newt turns beet red and the entire Auror Office erupts into laughter. It serves Newt right, Graves thinks smugly as they head out of the building. 

Maybe tomorrow he’ll send a few memos of his own.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dollfce_AnonymousAngel asked for a reader insert: "somebody helping the reader get over the fact that she was given a fake number by somebody who asked if he could give her his number"

You sit on your bed and stare at your phone. You kind of…don’t want to go downstairs. These texts aren’t what you wanted.

“[Reader]!” you hear Percival call from downstairs. “You coming down for dinner?”

Shit. Right. Dinner. That’s a thing that you do with your adopted family. Right.

“I’m not hungry!” you call back. You really aren’t. Eating might just make you sick right now.

There’s a pause, and some indistinct conversation, and then footsteps on the stairs. You set your phone aside as the knock comes on the door. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah,” you say, and are one-hundred-percent unsurprised when Percival walks into your room. He’s basically just a pile of unresolved worries and does best when he can aim them at someone else. You were really hoping that you could get away with them not being aimed at you.

“You’ve never missed dinner in the whole time you’ve been living here. What’s happening?” he asks. There’s a line of worry between his eyes. So much for not wanting to be worried about.

“Nothing much,” you say, carefully not looking at your phone.

He leans on the doorframe. “Sure about that?”

You’re planning to say something like, ‘of course I’m sure’, but you don’t really get much out other than a small “No…” before your eyes start watering.

The bed sinks as Percival sits down next to you. “Do I need to send Tina out to hex someone for you?”

You shake your head, trying to pull up a smile. You’re usually a pretty good eccedentesiast, but today…not happening. “N-no, it’s fine, I’m okay…” That’s when you slip up and glance at your phone.

Percival gets it in half a second, him and his stupid magical-FBI intuition. “It didn’t work out?”

“He gave me a fake number,” you whisper. You twist your hands in your lap. “I thought…I thought…I’m sorry I’m crying, it’s so stupid…”

“Hey, hey, it’s all right,” Percival says. An arm settles around your shoulders and pulls you in for a half-hug. “It’s cruel, doing something like that to you.”

You nod, sniffling and rubbing your eyes. You hate crying so much. “I was just hoping he’d…” You trail off, unable to figure out what you were hoping. But Percival doesn’t push the issue. He just lets you cry on his shoulder, until you’re pretty much tapped out.

“You going to be okay?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Thanks.”

It’s not perfect, but you feel better, now. And when the rest of your family hears about it, you find yourself on the couch watching a terrible movie that Tina and Jacob spend the entire time loudly critiquing while Queenie feeds everyone popcorn and M&Ms. Newt drops his puppy Pickett on your lap, and you’re sandwiched between Credence and Percival, being cuddled fiercely. Your phone, and that fake number, are entirely forgotten.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for spamming everyone with repeated chapter updates, but I wrote A LOT of these yesterday...
> 
> toffy requested modern AU, Credence/Graves, autumn leaves and a long scarf and hot cider.

“I’m just saying–giving me a thousand-foot-long scarf won’t save me from anything, really,” Credence says.

Graves rolls his eyes at his young companion as he pulls on his gloves. “It isn’t a thousand feet long.”

Credence holds up the ends of his scarf, which hang near his waist. “Yes, it is. I look absolutely ridiculous.”

“You look absolutely handsome,” Graves corrects, tugging the emerald-green scarf down from where it piles around Credence’s face so he can kiss him.

“Shut up,” Credence mutters, smiling and blushing.

They go out into the bright autumn day. The plan is to go and enjoy the day, since Graves officially has the weekend off. Graves’ phone has been left at home on his desk, turned off; he doesn’t plan on doing anything today.

Credence, it turns out, did not leave his phone at home. They stop at a street corner and Credence insists on taking a selfie; Graves can’t imagine how many candid photos he’ll have tonight. Credence is cheerful and utterly carefree and it warms Graves’ heart to see him like this.

“It would do you some good to lighten up,” Credence says cheerfully, pausing to aim his phone up and take a picture of a skyscraper. Graves doesn’t know what’s so special about this particular view, but he’s sure he’ll see it later. The most mundane things become exceptional through Credence’s eyes.

“I’m plenty light,” Graves says.

Credence sticks his tongue out. “You have no right to grouch. You aren’t wearing a scarf a mile long!”

He can’t help sometimes remembering last year, when there had been the breaking up of Grindelwald’s crime ring, and Credence had been rescued. It had been a bad time for both of them, but after the fact they’d discovered that they had more in common than their traumas. These days, things are so much better.

They end up in Central Park, where the autumn leaves are a riot of fiery colors, fallen leaves crunching underfoot as they walk. They ignore the tourists, just enjoying the crisp air. Graves wants to bring Credence back here when the Wollman Rink opens for ice skating in the winter; for now, he’s content to buy them both hot apple cider so that they can stay warm as they wander.

“I love this,” Credence says, looking up at the trees. Their leaves aren’t changing all at once–Central Park is strange like that, trees going to red and orange and gold while half of the leaves remain green–but it lends a certain unearthly atmosphere to the whole park. “Just…like something out of a novel.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Graves says. He catches Credence’s hand and looks up at the young man, who’s just slightly taller than Graves.

Credence gives him a sideways look. “You know, I bet a character in a novel wouldn’t be wearing the Six-Mile Scarf.”

Graves can’t help laughing. “Is this my clue that we’re going shopping?”

“Maybe. Or maybe I’m just teasing you,” Credence says with a beatific grin, and in the summery light of his smile Graves forgets that it’s autumn at all.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous request: goldgramander, anything with Feels.

“How did we end up here?” Tina asks, watching Newt from across the street as he chats up a local warlock, looking for information on the rumored location of a bicorn.

“We came by train,” Percival says. “Even if you slept through the entire trip, and don’t remember how it happened.” They’re sitting at a table under a cafe awning, coffee in front of them and Newt’s suitcase at Percival’s side. Two ex-Aurors and a magizoologist. Strange company.

Tina smiles over the table at him. His hair gets grayer with every passing day, but at the same time, without the worries of the position of the Director of Magical Security on his shoulders, Percival looks more carefree than he ever has. “I mean here, us, together, with Newt.”

“Oh,” Percival says. He shakes his head, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. “That’s a mystery.”

It really isn’t. Things had just sort of…happened. Tina and Newt had been drifting together before Percival returned to his work at MACUSA. Tina had found Percival, and it had been a natural extension of that for Tina to take care of him after that. Percival was always a solitary man, but after he’d been pulled out of a box on his desk he’d needed someone else. Tina–and Newt–had provided.

And now here they are.

Newt comes bounding across the road, heedless of the traffic. “Definitely a bicorn,” he says, as if their conversation had never cut off, “it’s out in the woods for certain, I hope you two are ready to rough it tonight.”

Tina takes his hand as Newt sits down on the third chair at the table. “Are you sure I’ve got to go along?” she teases.

Newt blinks, gaze flicking between the two of them. “If you and Percival want to stay–”

“She’s joking,” Percival says. He doesn’t take Newt’s hand, because Percival is not good at public affection, but he does rest a hand briefly on Newt’s forearm. “We’ll be out there in the woods tonight with you.”

“All right,” Newt says, smiling. “Have you two just been sitting here gathering moss while I’ve been working?”

“This is your circus,” Tina says, “not ours!”

“Yes,” Percival says. “You’re the ringmaster, and we’re the clowns.”

Picking up Percival’s cup and taking a sip of coffee, Newt says, “I’d rather be the lion tamer. Or Nundu tamer, as the case may be.”

Tina rolls her eyes. “So we’re still the clowns.”

“Precisely,” Newt says.

Percival takes his cup back from Newt. “I’m the ringmaster, I’ll have you know,” he says, dignified.

“I think I’m still a clown,” Tina says.

“No,” Newt says, smiling at her, “I think you’re the lady who rides horses and dives off cliffs, like the Carver girl. Daring.”

“Beautiful,” Percival adds.

“Incredible.”

“Awe-inspiring.”

Tina feels herself blush furiously. “You’re ganging up on me!”

She finds her other hand taken by Percival. “Of course we are. It’s why you’re with two of us. One man just couldn’t keep up.”

“We love you, Tina,” Newt murmurs, glancing at her; Percival only nods, gazing at her with a faint smile.

As they get up from the table, Tina makes sure to kiss each of them soundly, a silent acknowledgement. She ignores the stares from people around them, because as far as Tina’s concerned right now, the only people in the world who matter are the two men who’ve each got half of her heart.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous request: Jacob and Newt! A gen fic.

“Look, Newt, you’re good with animals, but I’m just going to point out that you’ve got no idea what you’re doing when it comes to machinery,” Jacob says.

Newt, elbows deep in the engine of the car that they’d absconded with, scowls. “I can solve this!”

They’re standing on a country road in Middle of Nowhere, USA, probably being chased down by a crew of very angry farmers convinced that the two of them are actually men from Mars or something like that.

Jacob rolls his eyes. He adores Newt, sometimes feels like he’s running around like Watson after Holmes, but then there are times like this. They’d stolen the car out of pure necessity, because there were men with guns and Apparating while carrying an injured baby Graphorn–there had been an escape from the case–was really not a good idea. “Come on, Newt, let me take a look.”

“Fine,” Newt says, rolling his eyes. He steps back, letting Jacob roll up his sleeves and get to work. The care isn’t exactly damaged, it’s just that Newt doesn’t know how to drive. Jacob’s a decent hand at machinery, and besides, he generally doesn’t assume that a “Reparo” will fix everything wrong with the world.

“There we go,” he says after a minute, stepping back and wiping his brow. “Now, can we please get back on the road?”

Newt, petting the baby Graphorn situated in the back of the car, swings around to climb into the passenger seat. “Let’s,” he says.

Jacob takes the wheel, because Newt may be good with a broom but the man can’t drive worth a damn. They tool away down the road, and after a mile or so Jacob says, “You know, when I agreed to run off and have adventures with you I didn’t think it’d be quite so…”

“Adventurous?”

“Yeah, that.”

“I’d apologize, but you were laughing when we were stealing the car.”

“I always wanted to be the Sundance Kid.”

“Who?”

“The Sundance Kid. You know, Butch Cassidy’s partner in crime?”

“…this is a No-Maj thing, isn’t it?”

“‘fraid so.”

“Well, you’d better tell me the whole story, I think we’ve got a long trip ahead of us…”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sister, who is _unbelievably predictable_ , requested Viktor/Hermione, coffeeshop AU.

Harry leans over the counter and covertly whispers, “You’re getting stared at.”

“By who?” Hermione demands.

“There’s a guy in the corner,” Harry says. “I think he’s in uni, too, but he’s not from around here.”

Hermione raises her eyebrows. “Are you telling me this so I can ask Lavender to walk me to my car?”

“No, he’s telling you this because that guy bought your coffee,” Lavender says, poking her head out from around Harry. “And he’s cute.”

Hermione turns and looks at the corner. There’s a man there, nose in a book, and Hermione vaguely recognizes him. From International Relations, maybe? Is he an exchange student? She leaves her friends to keep making drinks–they are supposed to be working, they’re baristas–to go over and sit down across from the man. “Thank you for the coffee,” she says without preamble.

He fumbles and nearly drops the book, looking up at her with wide eyes. He’s a well-built man and would probably tower over her if he was standing, and he’s got a shaved head and tattoos that peek above the color of his bright red hoodie. “Ah–it was no trouble.”

“Well, thank you anyway,” Hermione says. She ignores the flutter of nerves–he’s a really handsome man! She sticks out her hand. “Hermione Granger.”

He shakes. “Viktor Krum.”

“…do we have International Relations together?”

“Yes,” he says, looking down fixedly at his coffee. “I am sorry if I presumed too much, I don’t know how it’s done to ask someone out here…”

“You wanted…to ask me out?”

Viktor glances at her. “Yes.”

Hermione swallows hard. “All right,” she says, “I think this counts as a date now.”

He breaks into a brilliant smile and Hermione’s stomach fills with butterflies. She wonders if it’s too premature to ask about a second date.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous request: Graves/Credence, snuggles.

There’s an explosion from the kitchen. Graves drops the book he’s holding and bolts to his feet, instinct taking him straight to the kitchen door. He has to stop there, though, and process what he’s seeing. Credence is on the floor and there’s a smoke stain on the ceiling, and Credence has smoke residue all over his face.

“Everything is fine!” Credence says when he sees Graves, scrambling onto his feet.

Graves puts his wand away, staring. “What did you do?”

“I was trying to brew…a potion…” Credence says, looking distinctly shifty.

Picking up a towel, Graves goes over and starts dabbing at Credence’s face. “A potion? Now I’m interested.”

“It was just practice.”

There’s something going on here, and Graves wants to get to the bottom of it. “Do tell.”

Credence continues to look shifty. “Look,” he says, “I really don’t…please don’t look at me like that…fine. Fine. I was trying to come up with something that would, um, get you slightly, er, hot and bothered, and…”

Graves can’t help laughing. “You overdid the ‘hot’ part of that while you were working?”

“It was one degree!” Credence says, glaring at the overturned cauldron. “One!”

Credence is mostly free of smoke, now, but Graves does notice that he’s lacking in one crucial attribute. That can wait until he’s calmed down a bit, though; at the moment, Credence might really explode. “Come on and sit down for a while,” Graves says, pulling Credence into the living room. 

They collapse next to each other on the couch, Credence snuggling into Graves in an almost instinctual way. They’ve gotten so used to each other now that things like this simply happen. Graves likes it, likes holding Credence and feeling him relax, his tense shoulders falling and his eyes closing as he calms down. It’s nice, knowing that Credence feels safe like this with him.

“Sorry about the ceiling,” Credence says after a while.

“I’ve done worse,” Graves says with a shrug. “Ask any Wampus around about the blown-up chimney in the dormitory.”

Credence laughs. He somehow contrives to get even closer, piling himself in like he belongs there. Which he, of course, does. “I will,” he murmurs.

“Besides,” Graves says, “you know that you don’t need magic to get me worked up, right?”

“Oh?” Credence asks, looking up at Graves with a small smile. “Prove it.”

Graves does.

They’re still snuggled on the couch, afterwards, Graves having summoned a blanket because it is a little cold, here at the end of September. Credence is lazy and sleepy, and Graves feels much the same way. But there is one piece of information that Credence does need to know.

“There’s one thing that you probably do need to fix,” Graves says.

Credence stiffens slightly. “What?”

“You got hit in the face with that explosion,” Graves says. “You might…want to look in a mirror.”

There’s a pause.

“…oh no.”

“Eyebrows can grow back, you know.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another anonymous request: Gramander, hectic lives lead to missing each other constantly...so they start leaving notes for one another.

The bed’s cold.

Newt blinks a few times, disoriented, reaching for someone who isn’t there, before he remembers: as early as Newt wakes up in the morning, Percival is already gone. He’ll have been at work for an hour and a half now, maybe more. 

Slowly, Newt hauls himself out of bed. He can’t quite dismiss the pang of unanticipated loneliness that hits him every morning at this time. It follows him down into the suitcase as he looks after the needier creatures, and into the bathroom as he prepares for the day. He doesn’t like feeling lonely anymore. He got used to it, and convinced himself that he liked it, but now…

He comes down to the kitchen and smiles immediately when he sees what’s on the table. There’s a cup of coffee–the mug obviously with a Warming Charm cast on it, to keep the drink hot and steaming–sitting beside a bowl of fruit salad, a fork, and a folded piece of paper. 

Newt sits down to eat, only absently noting that Percival has finally–thankfully–given up his idea that celery belongs in fruit salad, as he picks up the note and reads it. The elegant script, perfect and careful, is so like Percival that Newt can practically hear him speaking.

_Newt,_

_Sorry for leaving so early this morning. I’d have liked to have been there, but I got an early call. I’ll make it up to you–say, Monday? Or perhaps we shouldn’t make plans. Neither of us have the luck for that.  
_

_I hope you appreciate that I’ve listened to all your complaints about celery in general, at large, and in specific in this salad. You’ll notice that I forewent all of it, as opposed to simply the tops, as I did last week.  
_

_Take care of yourself today. Although I’d relish the chance to see you in any capacity, I’d prefer for it not to be in the hospital this week. Or stumbling upon the remains of yet another creature-smuggling ring that you single-handedly arrested before the Investigation Team arrived. As impressed as I was, you’re giving all my Aurors a bad name.  
_

__Unfortunately I have to cut this letter short, otherwise I’ll decide not to go in to work and that would end badly. If it ever happens, it’ll be because I looked at you and forgot to ever look away._   
_

_All my love,_

_Percival_

***

Graves feels as though he’s dragging himself through mud by the end of the day, even though it’s barely six o’clock. It’s all he can do to simply get up the steps and into the house. He calls out for Newt, and–there’s no answer. 

There must have been a call, then. They’d planned to at least see each other for dinner tonight, and Newt’s nothing if not punctual. Unless a creature’s involved. Graves will have one hell of a headache tomorrow, cleaning up whatever Newt uncovers tonight. 

He takes off his jacket and tosses it over the back of a chair. It’s pretty plain that two incredibly busy people live in this house: articles of clothing multiply as if conjured up by magic. Graves walks into the kitchen and stops, smiling at what he sees. There’s a plate for him at the table: baked ham, potato salad, and a roll, all still piping hot. 

Graves doesn’t pay much attention to what he’s eating, except to notice with mild surprise that there’s celery in the potato salad again. Newt’s handwriting is the speedy, unscripted print that he uses to write at top speed, a monster of his own invention that’s more than half code. Lucky he’s taught Graves.

_Percival,_

_I’m so sorry I had to run out on dinner. I was just putting everything together when I got the call that some beast has been sighted off Ellis Island. I doubt it’s anything–water’s too shallow and too busy to attract much–but they are making a production of things so off I go. I’ll have a report on your desk tomorrow, I’m sure. Please address the beast-related hysteria in the department, I know we’ve talked, but this is the third or fourth time now._

_Sorry to go off about all that and talk business, this is supposed to be a nice goodnight from me and I’m talking like we’re at work. The potato salad is a return on investment: you didn’t feed me celery in the fruit salad earlier this week, so I put it in the potato salad for you. Now we’re even, right?_

_Please sleep well tonight. I’ll try not to wake you when I get in, though the way you sleep I may get to say hello to you, at least. I hope that the day wasn’t too draining, and if it was draining then I’ll stay home tomorrow to fuss over you as you deserve.  
_

_I’d best get on my way. I promise not to fall into the sea while you aren’t there to catch me.  
_

_All my love,_

_Newt_


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wild OT3 appears! Crimson_Voltaire called for Queenie/Graves/Credence camping in Algonquin Park.

“I took a desk job to get away from camping,” Percival says, hoisting the backpack higher on his shoulders. “And now you two come into my life and convince me it’s a good idea!”

“You know why we’re going!” Queenie calls, from further up the trail. “‘cause Credence has never been!”

At Percival’s side, Credence gives him a grin. “You could have said no and we could have ‘camped’ on your living room floor. Again.”

“We do that almost every night!” Queenie hollers.

“It’s like she has ESP,” Percival says, rolling his eyes.

Queenie looks over her shoulder at them. “I do! I know what you’re thinking!”

Credence laughs. “What are we thinking?”

She puts a sway in her step, making her backpack swing awkwardly from side to side. With that on, it’s not precisely sexy. But still… “How much you want to get this backpack off me,” she singsongs.

“How did you ever guess,” Percival says dryly.

She laughs. “A magician never reveals her secrets!”

By the time that they arrive at the campsite, only Percival–who actually works out–is not panting and exhausted. He’s the one who has to set up the tent, because Queenie is actually tired and Credence is claiming exhaustion. He doesn’t mind: it’s not a bad job, especially when he gets to see the two of them side by side laughing and talking. The two most precious people in his life, just enjoying each other’s company.

There’s plenty to explore in the surrounding area. Summer is in full swing, and it’s really Credence’s first time going hiking like this. Come to think of it, it’s Percival’s too: the last few times he went outside like this he was carrying half his body weight in equipment because he was conducting training exercises. Only Queenie has any real experience in things like this, because of her “ill-advised year as a biology major in undergrad”.

And they’re far away from people, so Percival feels a little freer to hold Queenie’s hand, and kiss Credence. No one cares out here that there’s three of them, or that it’s a man nearing service retirement with a graduate student and a senior in undergrad. It’s just them, and the trees, and the birds, and, when night falls, the stars. It’s beautiful. Queenie and Credence are beautiful, and he tells them so. Credence turns beet red and Queenie kisses them both.

It’s perfect. It’s perfect, and Percival couldn’t be happier.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> duckiesinaline got a second prompt out of me. Theseus/Percival, it's late and Official Hats start slipping so they show affection when they aren't supposed to.

Theseus forcibly reminds himself that he is a Professional, and the lead Auror on this joint mission, and that he right now is Not Allowed To Look The Wrong Way At Percival Graves. He is also Not Allowed To Hold Percival Graves’ Hand, and is Absolutely Forbidden To Kiss Percival Graves.

Judging by the way Percy’s eyes keep drifting his way, the trouble is mutual.

“Get your reports to us by nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” Percy is saying to their Aurors. “We–”

“–expect to have task forces assembled for a final sweep by ten,” Theseus cuts in. Damn. He’s also Not Supposed To Finish Percival Graves’ Sentences. It speaks to familiarity far too deep for men like them.

Nobody seems to notice. And Percy just keeps talking. “As Scamander said. We need to ensure that there won’t be any immediate fallout or danger to civilians once the evacuation order is lifted.”

Theseus notices that he’s been unconsciously moving closer to Percy, who despite his strong voice looks like he’s about to topple over from exhaustion. If any of them deserve it, Percy does: he was the one to take on the trolls personally. This wasn’t an easy case, no matter what–an underground beast-fighting ring is no joke–and of course Percy made it harder than necessary.

Now they’re shoulder to shoulder, and this time Theseus notices a few Aurors giving him an odd look. Theseus ignores them firmly. “I’ll be directing the sweep teams. Percy–Graves, I mean–”

“I’ll be taking several of you with me to meet with the Minister of Magic.” Percy soldiers on, even though this briefing is just coming apart at the seams. Merlin help them both, he’s starting to lean on Theseus. They Are Not Supposed To Lean On Each Other In Public.

“So. Nine for reports, sweep teams assembled by ten,” Theseus says, a final desperate bid to end this as soon as possible. “Any questions?”

One of Percy’s Aurors, a short woman by the name of Winfrith, raises a hand. “I know it’s probably wrong to ask this, sir, but half my monthly paycheck hangs in the balance right now.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Diana–one of Theseus’ Aurors–mutters, covering her face with her hands. “This is how we all get fired.”

“What is it?” Percy asks.

“Please–off the record, can you two confirm whether or not you’re sleeping with each other?” Winfrith asks plainly.

Theseus just kind of…freezes. He feels Percy do the same thing, and can just tell that they’re having the same mental crisis.

“Oh, damn,” someone says.

“On the record,” Percival says slowly, “I cannot confirm rumors like that.”

It takes a second for that statement to sink in, and then Winfrith grins and turns to Diana. “You’d better get on checking the exchange rate of Dragots to Galleons,” she says, “because you owe me a lot of money.”

Theseus groans and, because this is just a fucking sinking ship at this point, takes Percy by the hand. “You’re all dismissed, go, get out, sleep!”

Percy turns to him as the Aurors file out of the room. “That was the worst briefing we’ve ever given.”

“No, really?” As the door closes, Theseus rests his forehead against Percy’s. “We really shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Technically, I didn’t confirm a damn thing,” Percy murmurs.

Theseus sighs. “Right. Technicality. How long before the entire wizarding world figures it out?”

Percy shrugs. “I trust my Aurors to keep their mouths shut. And do we really care if they don’t?”

For a second, Theseus thinks about that. “As a matter of propriety, but…no, not really.”

“Good,” Percival says. “You and I should…probably go to bed. So we’re in a fit state to take those reports tomorrow at nine.”

“Bed,” Theseus echoes, squeezing Percival’s hand. He really doesn’t give a damn if people notice them or not, come to think of it. He doesn’t. He’d like to be allowed to Be With Percival Graves In Public, The World Be Damned. Theseus has been told he’s a stubborn man. High time he turns that stubbornness to keeping the person he wants.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final prompt, for goldfromstraw, is...not per se fluffy. But it has a hopeful ending.

On their first day living together, they struggle to even navigate the same space.

Credence doesn’t know what to make of this new Mr. Graves, a man who carries himself with silent, calm strength despite the scars on his face and the tremors in his hands. And it seems that Mr. Graves does not know quite what to make of Credence.

But for the first time in a very long time, someone is taking care of Credence. He has more than enough to eat, and a roof over his head that will not be taken away. He is safe, and left alone, and if Mr. Graves is distant it is a distance of consideration and not disdain.

The problem is that Credence doesn’t know how to return the favor.

Mr. Graves is still serving as the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and Director of Magical Security, though he’s told Credence that in time he will be replaced. “Out of necessity,” he explains blandly. “I’m no longer capable of the direct action required for the post.” Credence thinks that he sees a spark of pain in the man’s eyes, but doesn’t know how to remark on it.

He picks up sign after sign after sign of the agony Mr. Graves fights through without complaint every single day. But he still doesn’t know how to do much more than set the table and, with his newfound magical skill, ensure that the house is clean and tidy, and demonstrate his magic to Mr. Graves’ exacting satisfaction.

It’s also unfortunate that around this time Credence realizes that he’s developed a crush on the man a mile wide. He thinks he can be forgiven for it; who wouldn’t have a crush on Mr. Graves? Credence saves up every casual touch as if he’s saving verses from the Bible or words for spells, wishing at every turn that he could find a way to pay it all back to the man.

Everything comes to a head one dark mid-September night. Credence ought to have been sleeping hours ago, but he’s still a terrible insomniac. Normally he stays in his room, but tonight he feels restless. He’s at the bottom of the stairs when he hears it: quiet, stifled crying.

With all the stealth he ever learned in his former life, Credence pads to the door of the living room and looks in. In the firelight, he can see Mr. Graves sitting on the sofa. He is ordinarily so unbent and unbroken, but now his head is in his hands, his shoulders shake, and his back is bowed. For a long moment, Credence is frozen with indecision.

And then he decides that this is the moment. “Mr. Graves?” he says softly.

Mr. Graves jerks upright. His eyes are red with tears, but instantly Credence can see the mask he wears snapping into place. “Credence! I had no idea you were still awake.”

“I sleep about as well as you, sir,” Credence says. He forces himself forward, across the room, to sit down beside Mr. Graves. “I…don’t know what’s happening, but I’d like to help, if I can.”

“You should look after your own sleeping,” Mr. Graves says.

Credence takes a deep breath. “I want to help you, sir. You need someone.”

“You have needs so much greater than mine,” Mr. Graves says, looking at Credence as if he could will Credence to understand. “I don’t need much.”

“Sir…you could have my company, if nothing else,” Credence says, hesitantly taking the man’s hand in his.

Mr. Graves stares at their joined hands like they belong to strangers. “I won’t be a burden to you, Credence.”

“You couldn’t be a burden any more than I have been,” Credence says. “I’ve lived in your house and eaten at your table and you’ve taught me magic, and I’ve never once been able to return the favor.”

“You don’t need to,” Mr. Graves says. His dark eyes search Credence’s face for something, Credence doesn’t know what. “You’re not a burden to me and you never have been and never will, do you understand?”

Slowly, Credence nods. “I do,” he says. “And…you wouldn’t be a burden to me, sir, do you understand that?”

It’s a pert reply and Credence flinches internally because he doesn’t want Mr. Graves to take offense. What will happen then?

But Mr. Graves doesn’t take offense. He just looks at Credence for a long moment, and then rests his head in his free hand. “I’m so tired, Credence,” he says quietly. “You know how it feels. To wear a mask, to hide your pain, pretend you’re things you aren’t.”

“I do know,” Credence says. He stares into the fire and remembers. He knows how much it hurts.

“But someone has to be strong,” Mr. Graves says. “Someone has to be the enduring Atlas holding up MACUSA’s sky.”

Credence looks sideways at Mr. Graves. “I don’t…I don’t think you have to be that someone,” he says, thinking of Chastity and Modesty and all the other children that he’d done his best to protect in his former life. How he’d stood between them and anything that could have happened to them at Mary Lou’s hands. He’d held up their sky.

“And who will do it if I don’t?” Mr. Graves says. He’s begun to lean against Credence, his strong shoulder against Credence’s bony one.

“Maybe no one,” Credence says. “Does it matter?”

Mr. Graves huffs a mirthless laugh. “It matters to me.”

“Then…Mr. Graves, let me help you,” Credence says in a rush. “Let me help hold you up, so you can keep holding up the sky.”

There’s a long moment of silence, broken only by the fire crackling. Outside, Credence hears the sound of a single motorcar going by; here, there’s not much else. It’s after midnight, and even New York has to sleep sometime.

“I’ll try,” Mr. Graves says, finally. “I’m not…used to having someone who wants to help me. But if you want to try to help someone like me, I won’t stop you.”

His hand in Credence’s is trembling, and the rest of his body is as well. It’s not hard, to hear the need and desperation behind Mr. Graves’ stoic words. And it’s that which prompts Credence to pull Mr. Graves into an embrace, feeling as if he has to protect the older man from the world, and feeling as if he can do it. He can do this. And even if for only that moment, Mr. Graves lets Credence hold him up.

They are not all right, neither of them. But Credence believes that they will be, if only they can hold each other up. If they can manage, together, to become like Atlas. They can find strength in each other, the strength to hold up the sky.


End file.
